Fear of Drowning

by Peter Turnbull

  The house, he decided, was a crime scene. He left one constable and a car at the house, in the front drive, and returned to Micklegate Bar with the other constable. He opened a ‘mis per’ file on Max and Amanda Williams. He then phoned HMS Halley, Knaresborough, and asked to speak to Lieutenant Williams. He told the lieutenant what he had found and obtained a description of Max and Amanda Williams.

  * * *

  Having lunched to his great satisfaction at the fish restaurant on Lendal, Hennessey walked the walls back to Micklegate Bar, joining the ancient battlements at Lendal Bridge. The walls were crowded with tourists who weaved skilfully in and out of each other, and again he thought, as he often did on such occasions, that the York Tourist Board would be well advised to introduce a one-way system for the walking of the walls, at least in the summer months. He fell in behind a party of schoolchildren, about thirty in number, about twelve years of age, all sensibly, he thought, dressed in yellow T-shirts and scarlet baseball-style caps, making each very conspicuous for the four teachers he saw to be in charge of the group. Very, very sensible in such a crowded city. To his right across Station Road was the railway station with its expensive canopy, which when it was built in 1877, was the largest structure in the world. To his left he could discern the roof and platform of the original station which was built ‘within the walls’. The original archways for which he could identify under Queen Street as it climbed up to Micklegate Bar. Hennessey enjoyed working in York, though it was not his native city. He enjoyed its compactness, especially of the city centre, really the size of a small town, but benefiting from being steeped in history, an important town from Roman times to the present day, with a magnificent minster, one of the great churches of Europe, which was allowed to dominate the townscape. No angular high-rises here. The prestigious university, he thought, diplomatically placed on the edge of the town, in parkland with lakes and wide spaces and of brick buildings of only medium-rise proportions. Sometimes the underside of York, less pleasant, would reveal itself, when the agricultural workers or the miners came into town on a Saturday evening, wanting their beer. But Hennessey was well content to work in the city and live a little way outside it. He left the walls at Micklegate Bar and entered the narrow entrance of the police station. He checked his pigeonhole, just a handwritten note from Sergeant Yellich, who felt the bungalow at 28, Old Pond Road, Bramley on Ouse, ought to merit the status of crime scene, and he had opened a missing persons file in the first instance in respect of Max and Amanda Williams. He went to the CID rooms and found Yellich in his office, sitting with his feet up on his desk, eating sandwiches and reading an early edition of the Yorkshire Evening Post.

  ‘Sandwiches again, Yellich?’

  ‘My wife makes them up, boss. Cheap and convenient.’

  ‘Haven’t you noticed that they make you sleepy in the afternoon? All those enzymes.’

  ‘What, boss?’

  ‘Enzymes, Yellich, enzymes. It’s the stuff in bread that makes you sleepy. My office when you’re ready.’ Hennessey returned to his office. He had avoided eating bread at lunchtime since that terrible day very early in his career when, as a young constable, he had eaten sandwiches in the police canteen and had a few hours later fallen asleep in the rear of an airless court, his snores bringing on an acid comment from His Honour, followed the next morning by an ‘interview’ with the Chief Constable. But he had observed that the best lessons in life are often the hardest learned, and had from that day hence avoided bread at lunchtime and found himself exhorting others to do the same. He lowered himself into his chair as Yellich appeared at the doorway of his office, mug of tea in one hand, the last of a sandwich in the other.

  ‘Take a pew, Yellich. The Williamses’ house.’

  ‘Yes, boss.’

  ‘Just finish your sandwich and let me have your impressions of it.’

  ‘Neat,’ said Yellich, with food in his mouth. He swallowed. ‘Very neat. Wouldn’t like to live there.’

  ‘Not a place where a man could put his feet up, speak with his mouth full and feel at home?’

  Yellich didn’t reply.

  ‘But no sign of violence?’

  ‘No, boss.’

  ‘Forced entry?’

  ‘No. Nothing at all like that.’

  ‘And no bodies?’

  ‘No, boss.’

  ‘Yet you think it’s a crime scene?’

  ‘Aye, I do, boss.’ Yellich leaned back in his chair. He was a man in his thirties, short, dark hair, balanced features, clean-shaven.

  ‘Why?’

  ‘Well, boss, the son says they should be there, there was cash and a cheque book in the house, things which would not be left if they were going away for any length of time, the cheque book especially. The neighbour; Mr Thom, he told the constable that they don’t go anywhere without their car, they’d only leave their car, I suppose, if they were going on a foreign holiday, or suchlike.’

  ‘And we’d know if they were on a planned period of absence. Go on, you’re convincing me.’

  ‘It’s out of character. By all accounts. A well-set-up couple in middle age, wealthy enough to run a Volvo estate and live in a smart bungalow – bit cramped inside, but smart enough – don’t vanish into thin air.’

  ‘Do we know them?’

  ‘No. I ran their names and approximate ages through the computer as a matter of course. Negative.’

  ‘So, no criminal acquaintances that we know of.’

  ‘No, boss.’

  ‘And they’re known to dine at the Mill, according to their neighbour. So they’ve got money and successful children. I have to say that you’re right, Sergeant, I too feel that all is not well, not well at all. My waters tell me.’

  ‘Aye, sir?’

  ‘Aye, Yellich, aye. You and I have two places to visit.’

  ‘We have, boss?’

  ‘We have. First you wash your sandwich down with another of the obligatory mugs of tea, and make me one while you’re at it.’

  ‘So, where are we going?’ Yellich stood.

  ‘We’re going to a stone frigate.’

  ‘A what?’

  ‘That’s what the navy call their shore establishments, and then we’re going to the Mill.’

  * * *

  HMS Halley stood off the A6055 Knaresborough to Borough-bridge Road, it was surrounded by a wire fence and shrubs and signs warning of dog patrols. Hennessey drove his car up to the main gate and halted. A young sailor, carrying a machine pistol, approached the driver’s side of Hennessey’s car. ‘Good afternoon, gentlemen.’ His manner was polite but serious.

  ‘’Morning, son.’ Hennessey thought the man too young to be carrying a gun. ‘North Yorkshire Police to see Lieutenant Williams.’

  ‘Yes, sir. Do you have ID?’

  The officers showed their identity cards.

  ‘If you’d like to wait here, please, gentlemen.’ The young sailor returned to the gatehouse and was seen by Hennessey and Yellich to pick up a phone, speak briefly and then listen for a longer period than the time he spent talking, and then replace the phone. He didn’t leave the gatehouse nor even glance at Hennessey and Yellich, who sat in the car listening to the sounds of the summer foliage, the birdsong, the occasional rustling as a small animal moved over dried vegetation. Beyond the gatepost the drive led to rows of huts and a parade ground on which a white ensign hung limply on a mast. Above was an expanse of blue, with few clouds, and a jet plane’s vapour trail, high, very high up, and disappearing rapidly.

  Eventually a dark-blue Land Rover approached the gate from within the base, shimmering through a heat haze. As it drew closer the police officers were able to make out the words ‘Provost Marshal’ painted on a sign which was bolted to the Land Rover’s front bumper. The vehicle halted at the main gate and the occupant of the passenger seat got out of the vehicle and approached Hennessey and Yellich, while the driver executed a rapid three-point turn.

  ‘I understand you gentlemen wish to see Mr William
s?’ The member of the provost marshal’s corps leaned forwards as he spoke to Hennessey.

  ‘We do.’

  ‘Have to ask you to leave your vehicle here, sir, we’re on Bikini Amber because of terrorist activity in London.’

  ‘I see.’

  ‘Apart from anything else, it means that no civilian vehicles are allowed on Ministry land.’

  ‘Fair enough.’ Hennessey got out of the car. Yellich did likewise. They followed the man to the Land Rover and climbed, as invited, into the rear of the vehicle. Hennessey felt strange that his car should be seen as civilian. He felt it odd to be a civilian, to be seen as a civilian, after all, did not the police now refer to folk as civilians rather than members of the public, as was the case in his early years? He did not think it boded well for his retirement, which loomed, he felt, like a shortening shadow.

  The Land Rover started with a jolt and sped across the base, halting, precisely, it seemed to Hennessey and Yellich, not an inch out of place. They alighted outside the provost marshal’s office, by the sign by the door. A raised wooden platform stood by the door on which a young rating stood, rigidly in the ‘at ease’ position. Hennessey and Yellich couldn’t help but look at the man, a boy really, and both noted how pale and fearful he seemed.

  Hennessey and Yellich were shown into a room in which stood a steel table and three chairs, two on one side of the table, the third facing them on the other side. There was no other furniture or fittings in the room. The light bulb was naked, the floor was of brown tile, heavily disinfected, the walls and the ceiling were whitewashed.

  ‘Some interview room,’ Yellich growled. ‘It makes me feel guilty just being here.’

  Hennessey didn’t reply, but thought that Yellich had a point; the room, he felt, would make a saint confess to something. Not for the Ministry of Defence the niceties of the Police and Criminal Evidence Act, the recorded interviews and the presence of a solicitor.

  Outside the building a strong-sounding, assertive football was heard approaching. The boy on the platform was heard to snap to attention, a door opened and three pairs of boots similarly snapped to attention. A clipped voice said, ‘Good afternoon, sir. Interview room one, sir.’ Hennessey and Yellich had just time to glance at each other before Lieutenant Rufus Williams R.N. entered the room. He revealed himself to be a powerfully built man in his thirties with glaring eyes.

  ‘Lieutenant Williams?’ Hennessey asked.

  ‘Yes. And you are?’

  ‘Chief Inspector Hennessey. This is Sergeant Yellich. We spoke on the phone this morning.’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Shall we sit down?’ Hennessey spoke softly, he wanted to resist being drawn into Williams’s snappy naval way of speaking. He found it oddly contagious, as if waking a ghost in him. He also wanted to control the interview. A look of anger flashed across Williams’s eyes, as if angry that Hennessey should take the initiative about whether to sit or not. But he said, ‘Yes, if you like.’

  Hennessey and Yellich sat side by side facing Williams. Hennessey took out his notebook and allowed his eyes to wander. Yellich kept his eyes fixed on Williams.

  ‘Well, Lieutenant, I’m afraid we have some bad news for you.’

  ‘Oh?’

  ‘Your parents appear to have disappeared.’

  ‘Disappeared?’

  ‘I’m afraid so. The circumstances are sufficiently mysterious for us to be concerned and we’re being more proactive than we would be in a normal mis per enquiry because of it.’

  ‘I’m pleased to hear it.’

  ‘We entered your parents’ bungalow – we found the key where you said it would be. There is no sign of violence in the house, no damage that we can see, no sign of anything having been stolen … there was a little cash on the dressing table … if there had been a theft of any kind that is likely to have been stolen.’

  ‘Fair enough.’ Williams’s eyes had a steely glint. Little wonder, Hennessey thought, that the boy on the platform looked so nervous. ‘I suppose that would have been swept up and pocketed by a thief.’

  ‘Everything was neat and tidy. The only thing a little out of place is the fact that your parents’ car is parked in what is an unusual way. So we’re told. Apparently, both Mr and Mrs Williams were in the habit of reversing the car into the driveway, but it has been parked having been fronted in. But it’s dangerous to read anything into that. When did you last see your parents?’

  ‘Both of them on Saturday night/Sunday morning. We got home from the restaurant at about half past midnight, went straight to our beds. I last saw Mother on the Sunday morning, Father was sleeping off his hangover. We had been out for a meal that night, me, my sister, Mother and Father. On the Sunday we all slept late, as we usually do when we’ve been out.’

  ‘Do you often go out as a family?’

  ‘Not often, once every three months, possibly more than that. That was the first time we had been out as a family since my parents moved to the bungalow, in March, I think it was … and the last time we went out for a meal was in February, for Mother’s birthday.’

  ‘I see. Was the meal on Saturday evening to mark a special occasion?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘So you left on the Sunday, you saw your mother but not your father?’

  ‘That’s correct.’

  ‘What about your sister? Did she see your father on the Sunday?’

  ‘You’ll have to ask her that. I left before she did. I have much less distance to travel but I wanted to return home.’

  ‘Convenient that you’re based so close to your parents?’

  ‘Well, it helps or it hinders, depends on your attitude to service life. Some have made the grade in the services because they’ve been posted a long way from their roots, others have survived because they’ve been able to return home at frequent intervals. It’s a question of personality.’

  ‘And you?’

  ‘I like it. I wasn’t always shore-based. I was at sea for a few years, then I was shore-based. It suits me being close to York.’

  ‘What sort of establishment is this?’

  ‘Can’t tell you, but as things go it’s not so important. We won’t win or lose the next war because of HMS Halley.’

  ‘You’re not happy at this base?’

  ‘I’m happy with the location.’

  ‘But not the position itself?’

  ‘No. I’ve had happier times.’

  ‘I see. Can I ask how old you are?’

  ‘Thirty-five. What’s the relevance of that?’

  ‘I don’t know if it is relevant or not. But your parents have disappeared, I’m afraid we must begin to assume the worst. Your parents are how old?’

  ‘Both fifty-eight years.’

  ‘Young parents, then?’

  ‘Yes … I suppose they were.’

  ‘I see.’

  ‘Do you ever say anything else but “I see”.’

  ‘Only when I don’t see, sir. Then I say I don’t. You see? So your relationship with your parents was good?’

  ‘Yes … no more issues than any other family.’

  ‘It sounds like it … regular, if infrequent meals out, sounds like a successful family. And your sister, she too has a good relationship with your parents?’

  ‘Well, yes … closer to Mother than Father. She’s a year younger than me.’ Williams seemed to Hennessey to be relaxing.

  ‘Not married?’

  ‘No. It worries my parents, they want her to find someone and start a family. Me too, but being a man nature allows us more time … but they’re worried about Nicky. Thirty-four and still single … good-looking girl too … no reason for her not to marry … clever girl … went to university … works in the Civil Service in London.’

  ‘I see. Do you know her address off hand?’

  ‘Twelve D, Chertsey Mews, NW2.’

  Hennessey scribbled on his notepad. ‘Nice and central.’

  ‘Yes. You know London?’

  ‘I ought to.
I am a Londoner.’

  ‘I noticed you didn’t have a Yorkshire accent.’

  ‘I grew up in Greenwich. You’ll know Greenwich, being a naval officer?’

  Williams smiled. ‘Yes, Greenwich, the Naval College, the Observatory, the Maritime Museum … the Sailors’ Hospital. Pleasant pubs as well.’

  ‘Yes. I’m from down the bottom end of Trafalgar Road, near the hospital. Maze Hill, really.’

  ‘I never got down there.’

  ‘Navy never did, officers especially. But back to the matter in hand. Did your parents have any worries or concerns that you were aware of?’

  ‘Not that I am aware of.’

  ‘Did your father have enemies?’

  ‘He is a businessman. All businessmen have enemies.’

  ‘Any that stand out?’

  ‘Not that I knew of. I didn’t take much interest in Father’s affairs.’

  ‘What sort of business did he run?’

  ‘No one sort. He had fingers in a lot of pies. He makes his money by investing in new companies, or buying newly floated shares. Venture capitalism, I believe it’s called.’

  ‘I see. And your parents’ relationship itself, is that healthy?’

  ‘Well, yes, very. They were happy together.’

  ‘Can I ask a personal question?’

  ‘I daresay.’

  ‘You sister lives in NW2?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Rent or mortgage?’

  ‘Rent.’